


ships on the shore

by inexhaustible



Category: DAYS (Anime & Manga)
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-27
Updated: 2017-03-02
Packaged: 2018-09-27 07:33:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9982982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inexhaustible/pseuds/inexhaustible
Summary: It's been over five years since Atsushi's last seen Ooshiba Kiichi. They'd split before graduation, and now here they are: Kiichi's a rising soccer star, and Atsushi's opened his own physical therapy clinic. They're not supposed to meet again.– of course, life has other plans, as Atsushi learns when Kiichi hobbles through his doors with a shattered ankle and impossible dreams.





	1. beginnings

**Author's Note:**

> whoa okay, thanks for sticking with me through this trainwreck. for clarification, pretty much all the seiseki boys and some of the sakuragi kids will probably be making cameos at some point or another.
> 
> bg ships include kazama/tsukamoto, indou/mizuki, and ubukata/hoshina, for what it's worth.
> 
> i have a very approximate idea of how medicine works. just ignore any plot holes for the sake of Artistic Liberty™
> 
> find me @iindou on tumblr!

“It’s only a torn ligament,” Atsushi sighs, dropping the patient’s leg. 

“Get a knee brace on when you can and avoid activity – it should heal on its own in a week or two.” He pauses to glance at his clipboard, scanning the patient’s information. Saitou Asahi, a high school student and tennis star – an unfortunate fall had left his leg injured, and even now Saitou winced as he withdrew his leg, jaw tensed.

“Two weeks?” Saitou asked, indignantly.  _ Here we go. _ “There’s no way – there’s gotta be something you can do! I have a tournament next week, and there’s no way I can miss it.”

“I don’t think you understand –” Atsushi starts, raising a placating hand.

“No, I don’t think  _ you _ understand, doctor,” Saitou growls, and Atsushi raises a hand to smooth out the creases in his brow, taking a deep breath.

“You’d be surprised,” Atsushi says flatly, and something in his tone makes Saitou hesitate. The teen leaned back, hunching over and deflating where he sits on the examination table. Atsushi sighs, getting to his feet. “I’m sorry. There’s nothing we can do but wait it out.”

“But afterwards,” Saitou says, suddenly nervous. “It’ll be okay, right?”

“ACL tears are fairly common. You’ll be fine.” Atsushi draws a pen from the pocket in his coat, scribbling on a note before ripping it from the stack. “Here. Give this to the pharmacist on the first floor. They’ll get you a brace for your leg. Keep your weight off of it, if you can help it.”

Saitou remains silent, giving Atsushi a discouraged nod before getting shakily to his feet.

“Hey,” Atsushi says, uncertain. “I’ve had my share of injuries like yours. It’ll heal fine.”

“Yeah,” Saitou replies. “But you’re not still playing, are you?” 

Atsushi can’t look Saitou in the eye as the kid picks up his jacket, walking unsteadily out the door, note in hand. He leaves in silence, leaving Atsushi to his thoughts.

–

“Kimishita,” Natsu says, snapping her fingers in front of Atsushi’s face. He jolts up, aiming a deadly glare at her. It’s break, a quickly cooling cup of coffee sitting almost accusatorily in front of Atsushi’s face as Natsu flits about, shuffling papers about and scrolling through her emails on the crappy desktop sitting on the table. 

“What,” Atsushi grumbles, blinking the fatigue from his eyes. The keyboard clacks under Natsu’s fingers, and Atsushi squints, headache starting to blossom behind his temples. He takes a begrudging sip of his coffee, pulling a face at the taste. Natsu finally turns, wheeled office chair creaking with the exertion. 

“Was something wrong with the last patient? You’ve been off all day because of him.” She says it with a strange tone, as if she’s already convinced of the fact. “He’s a high-schooler, right?” She fiddles with the stethoscope draped over her shoulders, glancing up at Atsushi questioningly. 

He grunts in reply, giving her a withering look. “You read his file already, didn’t you? You’re just wasting my time.”

She frowns – and rolls up the file in her hands, whacking Atsushi sharply across the head. He reacts immediately, grabbing the paper out of her hands with a growl, jumping to his feet.

“You–”

“Listen,” Natsu interrupts, tone harsh and authoritative. “You’re my coworker, but don’t forget that I knew you before you were a doctor. I know what’s on your mind.”

“Don’t presume that you knew me then – you don’t even know me now,” Atsushi snarls, but it’s weak even to his own ears.

“I didn’t put up with your grumpy ass this long for nothing – clinic revenue’s just a bonus, y’know. Plus,” Natsu says, tone becoming strangely gentle. “I do have a brother.”

Atsushi falls silent, and Natsu huffs, raising a rough hand to fix Atsushi’s collar, smoothing out the wrinkles in his coat. He allows it, gritting his teeth, fingers tapping out a nervous rhythm across the counter.

“Kimishita,” Natsu tries, soft. “Why didn’t you go pro, anyways?”

He looks away, memories bubbling to the surface and old pains aching under his skin. Under his feet, the tiles of the clinic floor feel suddenly alien, as if he’d expected to feel the give of the pitch’s turf under his cleats.

“Don’t push it.”

He gets to his feet, prepared to see his next patient, before Natsu calls after him. 

“Have you talked to him lately?” 

Atsushi freezes, taken off-guard. For a split second, he thinks Natsu’s talking about – but then her eyes meet his, and her eyes widen, shaking her head. “Shuuji, I meant.”

He lets out a relieved breath, sending Natsu a strange look. “Why would I talk to your brother?”

“You two have more in common than you’d think,” Natsu comments, a weary note in her voice, and Atsushi resists the urge to shudder. The last he’d heard, Natsu’s kid brother had opened a clinic of his own – but for a rather different audience.  _ Don’t understand the pet craze, honestly.  _ In any case, he hadn’t made a concerted effort to keep in touch with many of his high school acquaintances, much less rivals from another school. 

“Should I be offended?” he asks, flatly. Natsu rolls her eyes, ignoring him. Crossing the break room, she opens a file cabinet, sorting through the mess before pulling out a folder, tossing it at Atsushi. 

“We need to hire a receptionist for this stuff,” she mutters.

“Take it out of your paycheck,” Atsushi fires back, and she crosses her arms, pouting. He glances at her, noticing a telltale gleam on her hand.  _ That – _

“Looking at this?” she asks, holding up her hand with a proud smile, a blush rising to her cheeks. On her finger, a silver band glints, glittering inlays revealing intricate patterns etched onto its surface. “Guess I’m officially taken.”

“Wait, don’t tell me it’s that Ind–”

Atsushi ducks, very narrowly evading a packet of artificial sweetener aimed at his face. It sails across the table before dropping over the edge, and Atsushi stares at it before glancing back at Natsu. 

“First of all,” Natsu says, face blank with horror and thinly veiled disgust. “I don’t – he’s already –”

She cuts herself off, taking a deep breath. “Well, some things are better left for you to find out yourself, I guess.” Before Atsushi can ask, she’s already continuing. 

“More importantly, don’t tell me you forgot who I was dating, when I talk about it almost every other day.”

Atsushi stares at her helplessly. “Tch, it just – wasn’t a memorable name.” 

Natsu stares back, unimpressed. 

“Fine,” he concedes, with an unhappy dip of his head. “Sorry. Who is it?”

“Ooshio,” she says, with a sigh.  _ Wasn’t that Sakuragi’s coach?  _

“Oh,” Atsushi replies intelligently. Natsu gives him a look, expectant. “Uh – congratulations.”

She gives him another disappointed look, before turning away. “I can’t believe you.”

She storms out, leaving Atsushi with his cold coffee, confused and vaguely annoyed. He leans over, picking up the packet of sweetener off the floor, toying with it before sighing, opening the folder in his hands, eyes scanning impassively over an x-ray printout and messily scrawled referral notes. 

_ Another day, another dislocated shoulder.  _

–

To say the least, it’d been a long day. 

Natsu’s question hounded him all day, an irritating reminder of something that had kept him awake for years. 

_ “Why didn’t you go pro?” _

Atsushi locks the front doors with a sigh, flicking off the lights. His eyes slide across the floor when he hears a  _ clink _ , foot kicking a stray bolt across the floor. He cursed, picking it up – it’d probably come loose from some of the rehabilitation equipment, and they’d have hell to pay in malpractice suits if a machine broke down on a patient. 

Natsu had left early – something about a family dinner with her newfound in-laws-to-be, leaving Atsushi to lock up. He sighs, rolling the bolt in his fingers before setting it down on the table, side-eying the equipment.  _ I’ll check on it tomorrow. _

His eyes scan over the room, feet taking him back into his room. 

It’s a small clinic, a private practice in the middle of a medical building. Atsushi’s eyes hover over the framed diplomas sitting on the wall, displaying his credentials as a physical therapist. Shrugging out of his coat, he folds it carefully, shoving it gracelessly into a drawer. A vibration snaps him out of his stupor, and he flips open his phone to a call from his father. 

“Yeah.”

“Atsushi! Are you going to be back for dinner tonight?”

“Ah, yeah. Just locking up here. I’ll see you soon.”

“Okay, just making sure you didn’t forget.” Atsushi can hear the smile in his father’s voice.

“Of course.” The dial tone clicks, and Atsushi flips his phone shut. 

–

The small shop is a familiar sight – the amount of people streaming out of its doors is not. Atsushi holds back a smile when he sees it, stuffing his hands in his pockets and ducking his head, toeing carefully through the threshold. Inside, posters display the latest promotion: signed cleats by the latest rising soccer rookie, Mizuki Hisahito.

It’s a little bittersweet to see it, and he feels bad for it, but – he’d always wanted to be the one on those posters, the one to bring customers into the door. Even after all these years, it still sends a familiar ache rocking through his chest. 

_ “Why didn’t you go pro?” _

He tries not to think about it. 

Still, he’s glad. During his residency, the stipends he’d earned had been enough to keep the shop afloat, but after Mizuki made his stunning debut, there’d been no need. Occasional promotions and collaborations with Mizuno to bring the latest licensed and autographed equipment to their doors ensured that business was booming, even if it grated on Atsushi’s nerves to feel so indebted to his former captain.

_ Still, if it wasn’t us, it’d just be another sports shop, wouldn’t it? _

In any case, he reminds himself that it’s no longer his business – quite literally. He’d moved out, to a small apartment close to the clinic, tired of leeching off of his father’s time and money. 

_ It’s good to be back though.  _

Atsushi catches sight of a familiar black-haired man in the corner, frantically manning the register as customers compete for the last pairs of autographed cleats. He waits, the angry outbursts echoing through when his father says, apologetically, that the last pairs have been sold. He stays silent, watching as the remaining customers file out the door. 

“Hey,” he calls out, finally, holding up a hand in greeting. 

His father looks over and grins when he sees him, walking over with arms spread wide. “Atsushi! It’s good to see you.”

They meet in a brief hug, his father pulling away quickly as if he’s just remembered something. “Oh, I have something for you, actually…”

Atsushi raises an eyebrow. “You didn’t have to get me anything…”

“No, no,” his father mutters, crossing the room and rummaging through a few boxes behind the counter. “Here we are!”

He holds up a shoebox triumphantly, and Atsushi walks over, hesitantly. “Cleats?”

“ _ Signed  _ cleats,” his father corrects, sheepish. “Though I suppose it’s a bit strange, since you know Mizuki and all.”

“Knew,” Atsushi corrects, almost mechanically. “Haven’t talked to him in a while.”

“He’s a busy guy now,” his father says, shrugging. 

Atsushi looks away, but he takes the box, feeling the familiar weight in his hands. “Yeah. Guess we all are, now.”  _ We’re not kids anymore, huh? _

“Too busy to visit your old man, huh?” Atsushi swallows, feeling guilt well up distractingly in his chest. His dad claps him on the arm, shaking his head. “Nah, don’t worry about it. I know you have your own life now, so it’s enough to visit when you can.” Something bitter lingers on Atsushi’s tongue and he purses his lips, but says nothing.

His father beckons him into the back, where Atsushi sees a table set out, two bentos lying in wait. “Even I’ve been busy – I was packed today, so I didn’t have time to cook. I hope that’s okay.”

“Of course,” Atsushi says, immediately. “It’s better than what I would’ve eaten alone, in any case.”  _ That is to say, nothing. _

“You’re a doctor. Shouldn’t you be eating better?” His tone is teasing, and Atsushi scoffs. 

“Yeah, well. Still gotta pay off my college loans, y’know. Can’t be spending too much yet.”

“Ah, speaking of your clinic, there was someone who came by today, asking after a physical therapist. I think he might’ve been on your high school team. He looked like a soccer player.” Atsushi frowns, opening his bento. He chews thoughtfully on a mouthful of salmon before replying. 

“Doubt it. Most of the Seiseki pros have been doing fine. I don’t think any of them have been injured lately,” Atsushi says, pausing.  _ Though I haven’t been keeping up with the latest news. _ “Did you give him my card?”

“Of course,” his father replies. “Who do you take me for?”

“A successful businessman, apparently,” Atsushi says, with a snort. 

“Yeah, yeah – eat your bento.”

–

Atsushi breathes a sigh of relief when he gets back to his apartment, setting the cleats carefully down through the doorway as he toes off his shoes, closing the door behind him. Picking up the box again, he opens it gingerly, turning on the lights with a free hand. 

Inside, the shoes gleam – it looks like the latest model of Mizuno’s, and a familiar gold signature wraps across the outside face of each cleat, glinting in the light. 

They’re beautiful, but Atsushi knows that he’ll never wear them. He opens the box fully, noticing an envelope tucked in the back. Setting the box down on his rickety coffee table, he opens the envelope – it’s unsealed, a slip of paper inside that looks like it’s been torn from something, Mizuki’s handwriting scrawled across the front. When he flips it over, there’s a diagram of a soccer field, colored lines criss-crossing its surface. 

_ Don’t send me a letter on the back of your team’s match plans, idiot – ! _

He turns it back over, reading. 

_ Kimishita, _

_ It’s been a while. Hope you’re doing well. I stopped by the shop for the signing event, but you weren’t there. I don’t know why I expected you to be, I guess – I heard you’ve started a clinic. We should talk, get drinks sometime. If you’re interested, call me, my number’s below.  _

_ Mizuki _

Atsushi pauses, fumbling through his pocket and grabbing his phone, adding Mizuki’s new number to his old contact that he’d never brought himself to delete. He continues scanning down the page. 

_ P.S. Don’t leak that. There are some scary fangirls out there. They’d have a field day.  _

There’s a scribbled out blob at the bottom, as if Mizuki had tried to cover something up. There’s a small note next to it that Atsushi squints at, pushing up his glasses. 

_ Sorry, that was Indou. Ignore it.  _

Atsushi puts down the paper, staring blankly at his wall. _Indou?_ _I thought they were on different teams?_

He makes a note to himself to read through the latest soccer news when he has time – it’s been awhile since he has, and he’s definitely fallen behind. It makes something ache in his chest, a pang of nostalgia and regret. 

_ That’s growing up, right? You drift. It’s unavoidable. _

He glances at his phone, debating whether or not he should send a text to Mizuki. It’s been almost a year since they’ve last seen each other, and Atsushi’s squarely to blame for that. He’d thrown himself into his clinic work, taking on new patients and drifting further from the few friends that’d stuck with him through college. He purses his lips, suddenly guilty, and picks up his phone, trying to figure out what he should say. 

Before he can think of anything, the screen lights up, phone buzzing in his hands. 

_ Phone call from: Narukami Natsu _

He picks up, confused. “Hello?”

“Kimishita, you’re going to want to see this.” Her voice is strained, tentative, as if afraid. 

“See what?” 

“Have you checked the clinic referrals lately? One just came in.”

“No,” he says, shifting the phone to his shoulder and turning to his laptop, fingers fluttering across the keys and logging him in. He navigates to his clinic’s database, sifting through the menus and cursing their outdated software, waiting for it to refresh. “Geez, why’s it so slow…”

“Kimishita, I…”

He freezes, eyes going wide when he sees the name on his screen. 

_ Patient Referral: Ooshiba Kiichi.  _


	2. waves

“There’s no way.”

Silence falls over his apartment, heavy as Atsushi stares in shock at his screen, still as stone. Static drifts over the line, Natsu’s breathing the only sign that she hasn’t hung up. Finally, she speaks.

“If you want me to take his case,” she starts, gently.

“There’s no need.” Atsushi takes off his glasses, swiping a hand over his eyes. “I’ll take it. He came looking for me, after all.”

“How can you be sure?” she asks, and Atsushi squeezes his eyes shut, sighing harshly and letting out a frustrated noise.

“I– Trust me.” Natsu doesn’t push it, but when she speaks again, her words send a cold chill through Atsushi’s spine.

“Kimishita. Have you seen the x-rays?” Her tone is worried, warning. “It… it doesn’t look good.”

Atsushi pauses, swallowing. _Kiichi…the hell have you gotten yourself into this time?_

When he opens the attachments, clicking silently through the pictures, dread settles thickly in his gut, medical training warring with a desperate, angry hope.

“No,” he mumbles, because – that can’t be right. There’s no way–

“Kimishita,” Natsu says, again. “If you need me to take the case–”

“I’ll do it. He’ll recover,” he says, conviction wavering in his voice. He needs to believe it, wants to believe it. “If anyone could do it – it’d be that dumbass.”

There’s a beat of silence that hangs ominously over the line, as much a concession as it is a condemnation.

“Okay,” Natsu says, voice soft. “Okay.”

“But Kimishita,” she adds, before she hangs up. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

The line clicks, leaving Atsushi alone with his thoughts and the damning x-rays open on his screen, ghostly outlines tracing the telltale patterns of a complex fracture throughout Ooshiba’s ankle. Fragments of bone lie interspersed through his foot, his lower leg, cartilage damaged to the point of being nonexistent.

_It’s shattered. Surgery. Pins, maybe. Intensive physical rehabilitation. If he’s lucky, he’ll be able to run again. If he’s not –_

Atsushi takes a deep breath, clearing his thoughts.

 _Stay objective_ , he thinks. _It’s just another patient._

Quietly, a part of him knows it’s a lie – if it was another patient, Atsushi would have written the case off as a lost cause. He clicks through to the next picture, glancing at the report. _Successful surgery, orthopedic surgeon Masuda attending at Tokyo General on 2/25. Fragments extracted, bones set and stabilized with two titanium plates. Patient expected to make a full recovery, though extent of future mobility remains to be seen._

He feels sick to his stomach.

He grits his teeth, pulling up his web browser, typing in Ooshiba’s name. Instantly, headlines flash before his eyes.

_Soccer ace gearing up for a vacation?_

_Ooshiba disappears from team roster: injury or indignity?_

_Power forward Ooshiba rumored to be caught in car accident: his fate next season?_

Before he can read any more, Atsushi shuts his laptop. The soft _whump_ resounds through his apartment like an echo in a cave, and he flips open his phone, scrolling through his contacts heatedly.

He lingers on a familiar name, fingers hesitating for a split second.

_Contact: Ooshiba Kiichi_

He takes a deep breath and continues scrolling down, free hand white-knuckled on his knee. _He’s probably changed his phone number anyways_ , he tells himself, willfully ignoring how easy it’d be to open up his laptop again and search up his patient information, his phone number. Atsushi grits his teeth, pulling up Mizuki’s contact.

_To: Mizuki Hisahito_

_ > [18:46] got your letter. drinks, you said? _

He stuffs his phone back into his pocket, not really expecting a response.

–

When he walks into the clinic the next day, his eyes are red, rubbed raw and puffy from lack of sleep. When Natsu sees him, she does a double take.

“Kimishita–”

“Save it,” he huffs, and she pulls a face but backs down, her eyes flitting about his face.

“If there’s anything I can do,” she starts.

“I’ll let you know.”

It’s not her fault, and he knows he shouldn’t be taking it out on her, but she knows him well enough to understand. Years of residency and late nights spent poring over textbooks have made her unfortunately well-acquainted with Atsushi’s bad habits, and he takes the water she hands him with a twinge of guilt.

“Sorry,” he tries, and she shakes her head.

“It’s nothing,” she replies, “but make sure – make sure you’re okay with this.”

He shrugs, slowly dragging his eyes up to meet her piercing gaze. “I’ll be fine.”

“You sure look it,” she mutters, but lets it drop. When he moves past her towards his office, she reaches out, putting a hand on his shoulder and holding him back.

“He’s already in there,” she murmurs, and Atsushi stiffens.

“Thanks for the warning.”

She lets go and he moves forward, noting the opened door. He pauses, steeling himself, before he walks through the threshold, seeing a familiar face inside. Atsushi closes the door behind him, stuffing his hands into his coat pockets to stop them from fidgeting, leaning against the counter at the side of the room across from the examination table Ooshiba’s sitting on.

When they lock eyes, Atsushi flinches, unable to meet Ooshiba’s gaze. There’s something molten there, something open and _raw_ that Atsushi’s been trying to avoid, and he finds himself unable to form the words he’s rehearsed to himself for so long. When Ooshiba finally speaks, breaking the silence, it’s terse.

“It’s been a while, huh?”

“Yeah.”

For a split second, Ooshiba is silent, and Atsushi prays, silently, that he’s not going to ask. Unfortunately, luck is never on his side.

“Why’d you go?”

A pause. Atsushi swallows, thickly.

“You know why.”

“Kimishita–”

“Don’t,” Atsushi hisses, gripping the counter hard enough to make his fingers ache.

“We could’ve been good, y’know.”

Atsushi’s eyes shutter with half-remembered pains, standing as still as a statue. His emotions boil under his skin, so close to overflowing. Anger burns in his chest, indignant – but he stops himself.

_If anyone deserves to be angry, it’s him._

When he finally speaks, his voice is low, controlled. Atsushi opens his eyes, letting himself really look at Ooshiba for the first time in years. His hair is darker now, no longer the bright dyed red it was in high school. He’s older, of course, but there’s a hollowness under his eyes that hint at nights spent awake, a paleness to his face that Atsushi knows has nothing to do with the sun. _He’s in pain._

“I know,” Atsushi says. It’s not enough, not what he really wants to say, but he’s not sure he can even voice the emotions in his chest – he’s not even sure himself of what they are, or what he wants.

Ooshiba moves to get to his feet, rash as always, and Atsushi notices how his leg shakes at the sudden movement, the way his jaw tenses, the tendons in his neck stretched taut against his skin.

“Don’t give me that,” Ooshiba hisses, and Atsushi turns away. It’s always been tenuous, whatever they’d had between them, and Atsushi feels as if he’s finally slipping, tightrope walking without a safety net.

“We were kids,” Atsushi says, flatly. “We needed to grow up, both of us.” It’s not a justification, and it’s not an apology. Atushi’s not sure what it is, really, but it hovers in the air between them.

“Honestly,” Ooshiba scoffs. “Sometimes it feels like you never even cared.” Atsushi’s grip on his pen tenses, and he jolts as the plastic clip on its side snaps. The anger is familiar in a way that sends a wave of nausea crashing through him, disgusted with himself for falling into the same traps, as if it hasn’t been years since they’ve last seen each other – as if it hasn’t been Atsushi’s fault. He tosses the pen onto the counter, watching as it clatters across his clipboard.

“Fuck you,” he snarls, because he’s done with this, done with pretending that he’s going to be able to do this with any semblance of professionalism. “You had no idea.”

“No idea of _what_?”

“How much I fucking cared!” he yells, breath pouring out of him in a rush. Ooshiba’s eyes light up with anger, and he moves as if to grab Atsushi by his collar with a growl.

_(“Why didn’t you go pro?”)_

He’s tired of doing this.

Atsushi’s arm flashes upward, shoving Ooshiba back by his shoulder. He stumbles back, weight slamming down onto his injured foot – he lets out a pained cry, hand grabbing the examination table to steady himself before his leg buckles underneath him. Ooshiba fixes Atsushi with an unreadable look, face stricken with something like betrayal.

“Have you forgotten why you’re here?” he asks, finally. “And don’t give me any more bullshit.” _Don’t pretend like you came here looking for me. You had enough opportunities, enough excuses to seek me out if you’d wanted to._

Ooshiba looks as if he wants to argue but he hesitates, and a flicker of pain flashes across his face. He pushes himself back up onto the exam table, sitting with his injured leg stretched gingerly outwards.

“I have to be able to play,” he says, shakily.

“I can’t promise you that,” Atsushi says, not unkindly. He hates himself for it, but he wants – he still hates seeing the vulnerability in Ooshiba’s eyes. _But people can’t be fixed so easily._

“I _need_ to play, Kimishita, you know that–”

“I know,” he says, cutting him off. He sighs, hand pressing Ooshiba’s arm for a split second – as much as he’ll allow himself – before he turns away, coat swishing behind him as he opens Ooshiba’s file. “It won’t be easy.”

“I don’t need it to be.”

“And I can’t promise you anything,” he says, carding a hand through his hair. “But I _will_ promise you that I’ll do my best to get you back on your feet.”

“That’s all I’m asking.” The stubborn set of Ooshiba’s jaw tells Atsushi everything he needs to know, his damned perseverance a familiar sight despite it all.

A beat of silence – words graze the back of Atsushi’s tongue, old guilt heavy in his chest.

“And I’m sorry.”

Ooshiba looks at him, a strange intensity in his eyes.

“I don’t want you to be.” Ooshiba pauses, looking down at the ground. “I’m not sorry that it happened,” he adds softly. _I’m sorry that it ended the way it did,_ he doesn’t say. Atsushi gives a stiff nod, unsure of himself.

Atsushi turns his attention back to the files in his hand, fumbling through the papers. “A car accident?”

Ooshiba flinches, eyes skittering away. “Been reading tabloids?”

Atsushi glances back at him. “That’s not an answer.”

“Does it matter?” Ooshiba asks, crossing his arms. Atsushi blinks, annoyance trickling steadily into his chest before he shakes his head.

“Fine,” he snaps, tossing the file aside. “How long has it been since the cast was removed?” Ooshiba pauses, drumming his fingers on his leg.

“Three days?” he says, unsure. Atsushi stares at him, incredulous. _He hasn’t changed, has he?_

“Do you _want_ to walk again?” Ooshiba’s eyes widen, jaw tensing with anger. Atsushi cuts in before he can say anything. “Your surgeon should have told you to keep your weight off your leg –”

“I’m not going to use _crutches,_ ” Ooshiba hisses, and Atsushi feels a headache coming on, brows furrowing in frustration.

“Why, because your pride can’t take it?”

“No, you _asshole_ , because if a journalist gets a concrete picture of me, injured, I’m out for the season,” Ooshiba growls. Atsushi grits his teeth.

“As you should be – or did you think you were going to recover in a matter of days?”

Ooshiba makes a frustrated noise, hands balling up into fists at his sides. “I _need_ to be at the tournament next month.”

“And I’m telling you that you might not be able to,” Atsushi insists, firmly.

“Might,” Ooshiba says, pointing at him, “is the important word there.”

“Most fractures take at least a month and a half to heal – and yours was particularly bad,” Atsushi says. “In theory, you shouldn’t even be able to put weight on that leg.”

Ooshiba grins darkly. “It’s amazing what painkillers and alcohol can do, when you put your mind to it.”

“Kiichi,” Atsushi snaps, horrified. Ooshiba’s first name falls out of his lips before he can help it, and Ooshiba’s eyes widen fractionally before he catches himself, expression wiped clear in a split second. Ooshiba holds his hands up in a placating gesture, giving an easy smile.

“Relax,” he says. “I’m joking.”

He’s lying, and Atsushi knows it. He’s seen enough of Ooshiba’s practiced, easy grins for a lifetime – but he’s not in a position to say anything now, is he? There’s too much he doesn’t know about the Ooshiba that sits in front of him, and it makes him deeply uncomfortable, as much as he tries to tell himself that it shouldn’t. He frowns deeply, giving a weary sigh.

“Okay,” Atsushi says. “Fine.” He gestures at Ooshiba’s shoes – expensive sneakers, shining in the fluorescent clinic lights. “Take those off. I need to check your ankle.”

Ooshiba hesitates, and Atsushi already has a bad feeling about this. He finally acquiesces, bending over and slowly removing his shoes. They clatter to the ground, and Ooshiba shrugs.

“Now what?” he asks.

Atsushi kneels down in front of him, clasping his hands gently around his injured ankle. Under the thin fabric of his socks, Atsushi can feel the raised tissue of a surgical scar, and Ooshiba sucks in a shallow breath, fingers tensing on the table. There’s something charged in the air, and Atsushi hates it, feeling it pulse over his skin, through his chest. He rotates the ankle gently, glancing at Ooshiba’s hand where it tenses, white-knuckled.

“Tell me when it hurts.” Ooshiba huffs in an amused breath above him.

“When it hurts – noticeably,” he adds, as an afterthought. He stretches Ooshiba’s ankle up, pushing it towards his leg, and Ooshiba makes a strained noise, shaking his head. _Range of motion isn’t enough for him to be able to walk comfortably – Kiichi, what are you doing?_

He lets Ooshiba’s ankle relax, fingers skimming over pale skin at the top of his socks, and he feels the same tension permeate the room, feels his skin prickle. He wants to –

His phone buzzes in his pocket, snapping him out of his thoughts. Ooshiba stares at him as he takes it out, flipping it open to reveal a notification –  _one new text from Mizuki Hisahito_ , it reads.

“You still keep in touch with him?” Ooshiba asks, something sharp and bitter in his voice, and – Atsushi can’t take this anymore.

“You shouldn’t be walking,” he says, getting to his feet. He needs to put distance between them, needs to clear his head.

“Atsushi,” Ooshiba pleads, reaching out and grasping his wrist.

“Don’t,” Atsushi says, shaking him off. _I can’t_ , he doesn’t say. He scribbles messy notes across his clipboard, listing off basic exercises to regain motion and balance. “I’ll bring someone else in to work with you for the rest of today.” _Sorry, Natsu._

“But–”

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he forces out, already walking out of his office. Behind him, he hears a sharp _bang_ , as if something’s been thrown against a wall, and he winces.

Ironically, it feels like he’s been subbed out of a match – it feels like a defeat.


End file.
